


When They Realise

by GrimLegate



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, F/F, F/M, Holy tags Batman, M/M, Other, spoilers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:36:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimLegate/pseuds/GrimLegate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just a matter of time before the realise how deeply they've fallen for their Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When They Realise

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of a list of headcannons about how the LI's in Inquisition realise that they love the Inquisitor.

Her thoughts are always fleeting, here and then gone. For a few moments she’s thinking of the smell of ale downstairs, the next victim of one of her pranks, her love for the Inquisitor, the new ways for her to get around the keep undetected. They pop up, and disappear, here and gone in the time it takes to blink. The thoughts a whirlwind in her head, and she’s standing in the middle of it. She wonders how it doesn’t drive her mad.

It’s only when she’s with the Inquisitor that her thoughts form some kind of semblance. When they are curled together in her little nook on the second floor of the tavern, where Sera lays on Annaran, her fingers tracing the roughness of the Qunari’s horns. When they kiss, the rough lips of the Qunari and Sera’s fleeting pecks that hold more passion the more chaste they are. The horned women tames her thoughts, shelters her from the storm of thoughts that whip through her mind. Though, Sera has no idea if she even knows the effect she has on her.

They are laying on the cushions in her room, the Qunari woman content to be the elf’s pillow as Sera gladly spreads herself across the mountain of a woman. Sera feels Annaran’s hands smooth across her back and trace small circles as she hums, listening to the blonde.

“I don’t know why she tries anymore. The cook lady tried to lock the sugar up. Lock it up. I think she’s mocking me! It’s funny ‘innit? She thinks that a small lock can keep me out!” She rants, her legs kicked up as the woman below her chuckles, a murmur of agreement deep in her chest.

“You know I love you right? Course you do, you’d be blind if you didn’t. Anyway, but she’s gonna ‘ave another surprise if she doesn’t check it. Cannot believe her.” 

Sera feels the woman beneath her shift onto her elbows as she looks Sera in the eyes. It’s a mild curiosity, the auburn eyes prying.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. What did you say?” The Qunari asks, the smug look on her face makes Sera’s face burn.

“What? ‘Bout the cook, or that I love you?”

“That you love me.”

“Well I do don’t I? You do too. Right?”

Sera asks, her thoughts all but halted as she stares at the woman in front of her who just chuckles and leans in for a kiss.

“Of course I do.”

 

___________________________

To say the the lilting feeling in his chest worries him, is an understatement. It’s this flutter. A light feeling that makes him feel sick, sick and wonderful and fills him with dread. All his life, he has never dared to dwell on these feelings. He pushes them away, because the pain of reality is too hard for him to bear. But now, the feelings settle in his stomach and make him feel ill.

The Vint has tied down these feelings since the days of his youth, too terrified to let anyone know of the feelings he had, for anyone. The feelings now shake him to his core, and there’s only one person he can think of that’s causing the emotions.

Arimond Cadash. 

The Inquisitor. The dwarven Inquisitor. If his father knew he’d shit his smallclothes. The thought brings a small smile to Dorians face. The stout redheaded man had captured his affections. There was something that drew him to the man. He remembers standing by the small man when they had went to the Gull and Lantern. He stood there, Dorian’s support, never once judging him. The dwarf was always so open about things. There was never a time where he would hide things. There was also the fact that he never judged anyone by something like sexuality or gender.

Dorian remembers asking him what he must have thought of the Tervinter man, and he had said he was brave, that he thought highly of him for travely his own path, and staying true to himself. He had also become fast friends with the transgender man in the Chargers, Krem. He remembers watching as he hunted down one of the men who had said rather ugly things about the man, and he saw Arimond smite him down like the Maker himself. His eyes were blazing as he told him that he was no better than the demons he fought on a daily basis.

It warmed Dorian to think of someone who would stand up for others so quickly, who would so readily take the side of the wounded party. He’s handsome too, the only facial hair he had was a light stubble across his jaw line, that matched the dark red of his hair. 

Dorian almost smacks himself for the thought. No, not this again. He doesn’t think he can handle hoping, dreaming, of being with the Inquisitor, not when the harsh coldness of reality looms readily as his back. The knot in his stomach tightens, the dread growing, and he wants to throw up. He closes the book in his hand and closes his eyes, his head reclining on to the soft chair. He plunges so deep into his thoughts he doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps until a deep, gentle voice pulls him from his thoughts.

“Dorian?”

He raises his head to find the subject of his thoughts standing before him, brandishing a tome in front of him. The Vintish man makes a small questioning noise before Arimond elaborates.

“You said that you had been looking for this book for a while, and I found it when we made the trip to Val Royeaux. Thought you might have wanted it.”

The stout man now has his full attention as he pulls the book from his fingers. Maker’s breath, he cannot imagine how he remembers the name. He can only think of one time he mentioned it to the dwarf, and is amazed at how he remembered. He feels the stony dread in his stomach lift and give way to happiness, as he realises that the Inquisitor had gotten it for him.

“Inquisitor… Arimond,” He corrects himself. “Would you have a moment to spare? I’ve been meaning to speak with you…”

___________________________

Cassandra cannot believe what she sees. It starts with a small note, the flowing handwriting that she knows belongs to Denove. The transgender Trevelyan who had grown on the warrior. She remembers seeing him for the first time, his hair a deceiving shade of blonde that looked white in the light, his eyes a dark grey. The rouge was charming, always willing to give credit where it was due. He loved to give Cassandra praise, calling her a ‘force of nature’. He could bring a blush to her cheeks, and words of love and praise came easily to his lips.

The small note she had found near her training dummies had told her to come to a grove (conveniently marked on a small map that came with the note) at sundown. She had left as the sun set to get there, and she was greeting by rows of candles. They added a glow to the plants that led to the small clearing she could see. She found him standing there, a small leather bound book in his hands, dressed in fine clothes. As her feet carried her to the man, she felt… lighter. It was the only way she could describe it. She felt whole, the empty space left by Galyan after the Conclave was destroyed, him along with it. She didn’t think that the space would ever be filled, that she would forever live with the broken pieces of a first love that ended in tragedy. But Denove was patient.

He had gently swept her off her feet. He tried his damndest to make it as romantic as possible, leaving little tokens in her haunts. Flowers, poetry, and other small things were the most common, and would leave her with the fluttering feeling in her chest.

He smiles when he sees her, his teeth pure white as he clears his throat. The words that leave his lips almost makes her laugh.

“On aching branch do blossoms grow, the wind a hallowed breath.   
It carries the scent of honeysuckle, sweet as the lover’s kiss.”

She sends a small thank you to the heavens, and hopes that they hear. Galyan must have sent the man to her, to heal her broken heart. He is here to love her and bring her back from the sorrow of loss. 

“It brings the promise of more tomorrows, of sighs and whispered bliss.”

She laughs. A pure joyful laugh that makes his eyebrows furrow. 

“You cannot be serious.” She states, the amusement clear in her voice as he is kneeled down.

“Of course I am.” He states rising from the position. She laughs again and plucks the small book from his fingers. The pages are crisp and yellowed, the ink slightly faded, and she cannot help but love it.

“‘Carmenum di Amatus’, I thought this was banned.”

“For my warrior goddess, anything.” He says with that sly smile, traipsing around her, and linking his arms around her center. She begins where he finished.

“His lips on mine speak words not voiced, a prayer  
Which travels down my spine like flames that shatter night.  
His eyes reflect the heaven’s stars, the maker’s light.  
My body opens, filled and blessed, my spirit there.  
Not merely housed in flesh, but brought to life.”

He pulls the book from her fingers and spins her to press his lips to her lips, all the love and reverence that he conveys makes her feel as a goddess.

___________________________

 

He braces himself against the cold stone of the battlements, his gaze scanning south of Skyhold. He often finds himself in this spot, the nightmares driving him from his room, from sleep, and now, the warmth of the bed he had shared with the Inquisitor. He had awoken, thrashing, and had promptly gotten up and left, afraid that if he went back to bed with Ariste that the nightmares would come back, and he would wake him up.

Her. Cullen berated. He remembers the night she came to him, the strawberry blonde of her hair smooth and bright, as she told him the truth. He wasn’t displeased, just shocked. Ariste was kind, and her personality meant more to Cullen than what was, or wasn’t, beneath his smallclothes. He remembers that she almost cried when he accepted her being who she was, kissing him and falling asleep in his chambers that night.

The mage was too kind to him, being his anchor. She had helped him on the nights were his head and body ached from the withdrawals. He remembers how she would cool her fingers with ice magic, before gently rubbing and scratching his scalp in such soothing ways.

He sighs loudly before threading his fingers through his hair and hanging his head, shadowed eyes watching the horizon.

“Cullen?”

He turns and he sees Ariste on the battlements. She’s in a sleeping gown with, Maker…, she has his pauldrons draped along her shoulders. Her hair is messy, and in the morning light she glows like Andraste herself. His heart skips a beat and it hits him like a gryphon. 

I love her.

To him, he is her commander, he would gladly give his all for her. She frowns and crosses the space between them before she envelops him in a hug before kissing him. She pulls away, concern creasing her brow.

“Come on, it’s cold out here, come back and lay with me.”

He shook his head.

“Nightmares.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him along.

“I never said that we had to sleep. It’s just awfully cold up there.” She said, tempting him to follow her. He relented, allowing her to take him back to his bed, a warm tangle of limbs, and he found solace from the nightmares.

___________________________

 

The Herald’s Rest is a busy spot in Skyhold when the Inquisitor gets back, with Bull, Sera, and Cole in tow. Cole disappears upstairs while Sera heads to her little hole in the wall. It’s Mehennon and Iron Bull that stay downstairs, the night still young. The Chargers are scattered about, and it’s Mehennon, Krem, Bull, and Grimm all in a little cluster. With a strong ale in their mugs, Bull and the Dalish elf recounting their tales.

It was a dragon this time, a giant beast that had roamed the skies of the Emprise Du Lion. The tale of the journey to the beast’s roost and the conquering of the High Dragon is told between sips of the alcohol and Mehennon getting refills. Every time the elf gets up to get more drinks, he swishes his hips. Bull notices it as Mehennon gets more and more intoxicated. He smiles, wanting to smack his ass like he did in the training yard outside.

Krem presses him for some more of the story and Grimm grunts in agreement. Bull laughs, telling them to calm down as he shares some more.

Ever since the first dragon they killed, Mehennon has always brought Bull with them when they were taking on a dragon. The Qunari found pleasure in taking something so wild, so feral, and taming it. Well, killing it, more like. This was the sixth one, the most vicious.

“Kaltenzahn. That thing was the baddest bastard in the Emprise. It made all the snow and cold worth it.”

He boasted, he saw Krem roll his eyes and Grimm grunt. He figured that Krem would have a smart ass comment, but all he got was a laugh and eye roll. The dark skinned elf hopped back over to Bull, the tan vallaslin over his left eye shifting as he blink and fluttered his eye lids.

“Hey Bull! Um, the, uh, bartender said there’s no more of that ale.” Mehennon said pointing to the cup that rested in Bull’s hand. “Is there anything else you want?”

“Tell him to open the kegs in the back, the one’s we got off of the Vint bastards a month or two ago.”

The elf nodded before bouncing back over to the dwarven barkeep. Bull smiled. Mehennon was young and thought of the best in everyone. He tried to keep them all happy when he could. If there was a problem he would smooth it out, and could always diffuse situations that even Bull wouldn’t touch. He remembers all the playful banter he would throw at Bull, little comments here and there, until he confronted him. After that, in their time alone, Mehennon wasn’t the Inquisitor. The whole fate of the world wasn’t riding on his shoulders.

He was just a Dalish hunter, too far away from his family, his clan.

It didn’t surprise Bull how easily the elf crumbled with him. Just a few touches, and words that stuck in the right places and he seemed to deflate. All of it just seemed to stress him, and he had noticed how much Mehennon had changed since they had started their little ‘sessions.’ He stood taller, he seemed healthier, because he knew he could always retreat to a place where he could feel as if he didn’t have so many people depending on him.

Bull’s attention travels from his drink to Mehennon who is bent over the counter, chatting up a storm, being his friendly self. He stands with a sort of ease, a drunken blush dusting his cheeks, and the fire-light catches the dark brown locks and all of a sudden, Bull’s thoughts hit a stand still.

Kadan.

It roars out into his mind. And he chokes on his drink, Krem raises a brow at him. The affectionate term bellows into his mind like the roar of a dragon, and when the elf is back with drinks Bull grabs him by the hip and pulls him onto his knee before pressing a firm kiss to his elf’s lips, who in term melts into his touch.

___________________________

 

She never thinks of the time. All she knows as the hour escapes her mind is that the last clerk is gone, and she still has a pile of reports to get through. Her job was never ending it seemed. She stares at the candle at the edge of her desk, the pitiful thing burning into the last reserves of the wick. What she wouldn’t give to fall into Vesuvian’s bed, to be held and reminded that her love was there, alive. His warm arms pulling her close. She blushes, thinking of running her fingers through the closely shaven sides of his hair, before reaching the thicker top part. The grey hair made people think he was older than he really was.

She remembers finding him, a mage, dueling with Otranto. While it had looked rather dashing, she couldn’t believe that he would do something so… foolish, for her until he proclaimed his love, his cheeks burning a dark crimson, a look she was sure that she matched. She remembers the romantic twirl and kiss in the centre of the square.

She rubs her eyes and sets to finishing the stack. Eager to fall in to bed with her lover, who she was sure was already asleep. After she finishes writing a letter of gratitude to a noble of Orlais, whose name escapes her, she grabs another stack of papers until a small note falls out. The looped hand-writing, is simple and elegant and she knows exactly who it belongs to. 

Please come to bed soon, I miss you. Don’t overwork yourself.

-Vesuvian

She smiles at the small note. She feels this warmth, this love, spreading through her, making her cheeks burn happily. It warms her to her core and she pulls open the drawer she’s gotten used to putting his little notes into. Some are like this one, some are little compliments, and others are little things that make her laugh. She knows he would never write something unkindly, or overstep her boundaries. When they are together it’s her that makes the first move, a kiss or a small cuddle on a slow night.

He’s always so gentle to her, a gentleness that leaves her feeling like a love struck teen. She always worries after him, and drops everything when he gets back, to at least spend a little time with him.

She closes the drawer and is filled with the resolve to finish the last few papers before walking up to Vesuvian’s chambers. She undresses and climbs into bed with him, and is promptly pulled to his warm chest, which she is more than happy to press into. A quiet, I love you, is whispered into her ear before he kisses her, and they fall asleep, warm and happy.

 

___________________________

 

It’s oddly fitting really. He’s a bear of a man, and she’s a mountain of a woman. Blackwall finds himself thinking. Some would say that it’s hazardous to think of anything other than the fight, while they were fighting, but he disagrees. For him, it all becomes clear in the moments where he swings his sword, and he can hear the shouts of everyone, his allies, the enemies, and it clears his mind. It’s an odd feeling.

Now, it’s a certain woman that captivates him. She’s no pretty elf or human. She the Inquisitor. A muscular woman who he has seen easily throw Qunari men like ragdolls. A Tal-Vashoth. She used to live under the Qun but had left, and worked as a mercenary. She’s a terrifying woman, strong and smart. She was a Ben-Hassrath, the equivalent of a Qunari spy. 

Her skin in a grey, not a light shade or a dark one, just a sort of middle between the two. Her horns curved back before curling outward, long white hair in a loose ponytail a stark contrast. Her lips were a deep shade of red, and her eyes were somewhere between a red and orange. She was gorgeous, but had an unfortunate case of, bitchface, as Sera loved to call it. She did look at any time that she would impale you on one of her horns, and she was unreadable. 

She was the kind of woman who could stomp you into the ground and turn you into putty in her hands. To be honest it was terrifying to him.

As he cuts through the hurlocks he thinks of her. He captivates her, and he has no idea how to say anything, or if she’d even be interested in him. His thoughts are shattered when he hears her roar, and he sees the alpha hurlock at his side swept away by her greatsword. Her lips are curled and blood is smattered across her face, dipping into the scars along her nose and cheeks. It sets his blood on fire.

Kirisaan. It’s a shout in his conscious as his blood sings, and his pulse thrums. Her hair is in her face as she rips her sword from his body and is gasping, her eyes dilated. He finds the look makes it hard for him to breath.

___________________________

 

She made his heart jump. Since she had stepped out of the Rift, ever since he had sat there and watched her, watched the Anchor on her hand he has felt it. This strong pull towards her that he felt helpless against. She was beautiful, with such a wonderful spirit, he could hardly believe that she was Dalish, and not one of the Elvhen. Her pale skin, and white hair, her eyes a beautiful clash of pale red and blue, looking almost purple, or pink to him. The pale indigo vallaslin, the mark of Mythal on her face, and the small scar that ran vertically under her left eye.

He could deceive others, but never himself. The first to her clan, and the Inquisitor, she knew more than most of her kind. She was curious, always listening to his tales, and always asking, asking, asking. He never tired of telling her stories, and she was so kind to those in need. Small things that most leaders would overlook, she would do. She connected easily with people.

Perhaps the thing that he loved most was the fact that Kaylau wanted to restore what was lost. She wanted to make them better, and she carried herself with this air of confidence that he hadn’t seen since the glory days of Arlathan. 

She was very contact oriented. Whenever they were together, it was always little kisses, holding hands, and cuddling. Not that he didn’t enjoy it, he loved it. She felt right against him. He loved to hold her close, even though he knew that he couldn’t do… ‘This.’ Forever, but in those small moments, it mattered.

He always wondered, how she would react if she knew. If she knew he had caused all this, that the orb was his, that he was Fen’ Harel. He couldn’t imagine her seeing him the same way. She was to be Clan Lavellan’s Keeper, she was supposed to guard her clan against him.

But now he would not worry about that, not while Kaylau herself lay in his arms on the small couch along the wall on his level of the rotunda. She was lying atop him, her head resting on her arms crossed on his chest. He smiled as her ears flicked in her sleep, dream-twitches. He pulls her close and joins her in her dreams. For now, he will not worry about the pain, he can focus on being happy.

At least for a little while longer.

**Author's Note:**

> This is by far the longest thing I've written at nearly 4000 words. Please kudos, and leave a comment if you liked it!


End file.
